


i know why the caged bird sings

by pluvieux



Category: Original Work
Genre: Poetry, prose, prose poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 20:54:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12197244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluvieux/pseuds/pluvieux
Summary: a bit unrelated, but we women were born with skin meant for war





	i know why the caged bird sings

"your hair is winter fire  
january embers  
my heart burns there too"  
(stephen king.)

writing myself into a better book  
you, i've been convinced to have a better outlook 

you were an avenging angel,  
who left no garden unburned.

you are so good at drowning quietly,  
baby, when the water, when the darkness engulfs you,  
don't you want me to notice?

my body has been worn, used, unbecoming,  
i've spent 17 years on the inside looking on the outside  
i've spent 17 years daydreaming, imagining what it would be like if the door was open

lash out, like fire spitting, to the one always there for me. i'm sorry, love, thank you for being so patient when i work you up + work you up then ask you why your blood + venom gushes out. i know how you feel when i circle you, antagonising you, acting as if everything that has ever + will go wrong is entirely out of my hands. i know i am at fault. i'm stubborn. i'm selfish. more importantly, i'm sorry. 

i hate to admit that i think i picked up some of the strong winds,  
the lightning from my father, who was a storm himself  
thundering around the house, looking for my brother & i  
it's a most shameful thing to carry on bad habits from a house that you worked at but were not loved

i've swallowed fire time + time again,  
so i spent every chance i could for five years in water,  
perfecting it, focusing on it

i've never seen mermaid or sharks because i've never been out to the beach,  
only inside a brick building  


i don't see my brother in the mirror as much as i used to  


i've spent countless hours crying in the bathroom,  
slamming my hand onto my thighs in aggravation,  
in pure anger, hatred, resentfulness

i blabbered to anyone who had ears  
it's a dirty word, _abuse_  
a conversation topic no one wants brought up, but i milked it  
i wanted anyone + everyone to validate me, to make me feel real, to make me feel better 

the first time i vented to hamlet,  
ink came pouring out from me, throwing it up onto him,  
tentacles latched themselves onto his skin, leaving dark circular marks along his arms, his face, his legs  
over the entire course of us knowing each other, each month, i would unscrew the lid of every creature + dead body part i had bottled up, locked up inside of the jar my father gave me, + dumped it all on him. 

my lover + i once talked about him being a sailor,  
\+ how good he would be, already having experience,  
catching all the monsters that crawled their way out of me,  
pulling up a net full of piranhas shaped by my hatred, taking their anger out on anyone + everyone, unsatisfied until they tasted the right blood 

(they never tasted the right blood.)

i was never empty, i was always, always overfilled  
like a closet stuffed full of things + taking one thing out just made everything collapse  
i was a walking avalanche,  
a grenade waiting for someone to pull the pin for me

if you ever asked me on what level of comfort i am with him, the answer would be that he had full permission to sort through + take out anything he wished, + when he did, it all came crashing down on him. he wept for me, yes, but he recited it back to me in stride. he didn't ignore me, or shove it all to the side. he took it all into mind, then comforted me, tried his best to make me feel better, like i was free, understood when our words caught on briars because he knew that that particular day just so happened to be covered in thorns for me. he got through my worst, so now he can reap the rewards, go through my best, he can have the roses. 

for the first time ever, i looked in the mirror  
\+ saw a girl worth loving.  
beforehand, i saw myself in cubist paintings, i didn't see aesthetics, i saw eyes, nose, hands, body.

except now i feel empty.  
like an oddball.  
like puzzle pieces that fit but don't fit.

"you're adjusting," i know. everyone tells me this. my heart longs for comfort + comfort was normality + abuse was the norm.  
i felt like an alien, not of this world, when hamlet told me i didn't have to delete messages between us, or pictures, or that i didn't have to hide in my room to video call him.  


i was home in a storm,  
i found love in chaos  
my granny handed me a turtle necklace + shed a few tears once they were done dropping me off,  
\+ i momentarily forgot how she lied to the CPS workers,  
how she + my papa told me that as long as i stayed, as long as i minded my P's + Q's, he wouldn't hit me  
how angry she was that our family's secret was out, how protective of her son she got 

i sobbed when i saw that she remembered to pack my favourite childhood stuffed animal,  
\+ i momentarily forgot how brainwashed she was into telling me, _"i don't know, it's a he-said, she-said type of thing."_  
(as if she didn't watch my father rage through the house all these years. as if she didn't see the bruises, as if she didn't see the carnage, the turmoil, the after effects of the earthquakes his stomping feet brought us, even when he threw papa to the ground over a tv bill) 

i'm out of the bad situation but now i'm cursed with the memories, with the weight it all had on me  
shoving it all off, shedding my old skin, crawling into a new, happier body

stepping into a new dimension with wonderful opportunities + cloaking me with happiness  
even the fact that i now graduate early, in december

i've gotten too washed, too comfortable with discomfort

....what do i do now?


End file.
